


Dirt under your nails

by Airy (hn209486)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hn209486/pseuds/Airy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She laughed. An incredulous, ridiculous laugh that didn’t understand the world, and she pulled at her hair. Because he had made her beg. She had been reduced to begging. She had begged him not to leave her, and everything inside of her wanted to take it back</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirt under your nails

He left her.  
  
Her shoulder slammed into the door first, and she leaned against the sturdy weight, a shaking hand resting on the doorknob as she tried to catch her breath before entering her quarters. Her insides burned, and shame made her cheeks red, and her bleary eyes made it clear she had been crying. Her fingernails were brown with the dirt captured underneath them. Her fingers had gouged into the ground earlier, long after Solas had turned and walked away. Long after he had left her face bare. She hadn’t been able to gather the energy to pick away the muck from beneath her nails, and now that was what seemed to be breaking her.  
  
Her face shimmered, shivered, seemed to tingle. It still felt like his hands were stroking over her cheeks, her nose, and her forehead. It still felt like his thumbs rested gently over her eyelids as the bright light of the spell blinded her. It still felt like the Dalish markings were being lifted from her skin.  
  
Was that freeing her from him? _Ar lasa mala revas?_

They had left together and returned separately, and her tears were a clear indication of what had happened. Solas surely would have retreated to his own room in minutes, not giving anyone a chance to ask—and when she returned? No… _nobody_ had bothered to ask Malinche what had happened. Not because they didn’t look concerned, curious, worried… but because they knew well enough not to approach her when that expression was on her face.  
  
The doorknob turned, and she stumbled into her room.  
  
A cold gust rushed over her skin from the open window, leading out onto the deck. It made the raw skin on her face tingle more, and she debated going over to close the large doors, blocking out the chill, but didn’t make it any farther than the rug by the fireplace before her knees crumpled and she found herself on the ground, legs bent awkwardly. An incredulous laugh, and Malinche reached her hands up to scratch at her face. Scratch at her cheeks, nose, forehead, where he had touched her and changed her.  
  
_You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world…_

The warmth of anger was almost a relief. She laughed. An incredulous, ridiculous laugh that didn’t understand the world, and she pulled at her hair. Because he had made her _beg_. She had been reduced to _begging_. She had _begged_ him not to leave her, and everything inside of her wanted to take it back, take it back, and take it _back_ …

Malinche found herself curled up on that rug that night, knees pulled up to her chest and the room too quiet for her to bear. She had goose bumps, but she didn’t care—there was still dirt under her nails.

At some point, Dorian let himself in. _Get out!_ She yelled, without realizing she was crying again, and he had refused. He had taken her by the upper arms, leading her to the basin of now cold water left out by the workers, and she had stared with horrified eyes at her bare face. At the dark skin, no longer kissed with Vallaslin, and soft features that didn’t look like her previous harsh, strict, powerful ones. She had stared, as Dorian dipped her hands into cold water and slowly washed the dirt from underneath her nails, and away from her fingers and the creases of her wrists.  
  
“Why…?  
  
“I ask myself that every day, my dear,” And Dorian hugged her. Malinche couldn’t think of a time that he had ever hugged her, but she simply leaned into him and let him lead her to the bed, gripping one of his hands the whole time. She let him lay her head on the pillow, and she closed her eyes.  
  
“Please, _please_ , come to me in my dreams…”  
  
“I wouldn’t wish for things like that now, dear.”  
  
She couldn’t help it. Not yet. She fell sleep as Dorian closed the doors to her deck, shutting the cold moonlight out.


End file.
